


alternatively

by rydellon



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Murder, Murder on Trains, Trains, implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 20:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17946338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rydellon/pseuds/rydellon
Summary: He says “his ticket” with a loose tongue, because the ticket originally belonged to one Hamlet Christianson, who Ricky had borrowed the ticket from the night before. The man wouldn’t be needing it anymore, in fact, he would never need anything again in his life.But the people on this train didn’t need to know that.





	alternatively

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skittenninja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittenninja/gifts).



> this is for my friend patio door. the piece this is based off of is called Night Song, so i probably should have used that as the title. whatever.

The Union Pacific Streamliner passenger train ride was, in Ricky’s opinion one of the most luxurious rail lines of the time.

 

He could lay back in his sleeping car or the lounge and watch the beautiful American scenery fly by, wasting his time on his (basically free) ride out of Los Angeles, the city of Angels, to whichever stop he chose, so long as nobody checked his ticket more than once.

 

He says “his ticket” with a loose tongue, because the ticket originally belonged to one Hamlet Christianson, who Ricky had borrowed the ticket from the night before. The man wouldn’t be needing it anymore, in fact, he would never need anything again in his life.

 

But the people on this train didn’t need to know that.

 

All they saw was the business-like man who got on the train in Los Angeles, his trench coat whipping behind him and covering up the hole in the back of the suit that his knife made, as well as the dark red on the collar of the pure white shirt from the stab wound delivered to the back of Mr. Christianson’s head.

 

 _Alternatively_.

 

C. C. Tinsley was fucking pissed.

 

First, he had to almost fight the kind lady (Brenda) behind the ticket booth for a ticket onto this damn train to catch the only suspect the detectives at the police dismissed “because he had an alibi”. (Although Miss Norris was lovely, he knew that she was for hire, and when she saw him outside of the room to question her she gave him a look as if she wanted him to pretend to believe her story. He did.)

 

Secondly, the second he’s about to get on the blasted train, some low-life constable runs up to him and tells him (while violently out of breath, there was a lot of wheezing) that another Golden Killer victim had been found and they wanted him to come back to the station.

 

He heard the final call for the train _literally_ right then and told the constable to “kindly tell them to fuck off”, running away before the poor boy could start stuttering about how he couldn’t say that to a superior and jumping on the train at the literal last second.

 

He landed at the feet of a stewardess and stood up quickly, brushed himself off, and asked her where he could find his sleeping compartment.

 

That brings him to his third hardship of the day, he’s sharing close living quarters with a man with a stab wound in his back.

 

_Alternatively._

 

Ricky likes to think he’s pretty smart.

 

He’s a Virgo, if that explains anything.

 

The soft piano from the lounge could be heard from his place in bed, the soft, almost haunting tune inspiring him to pull his briefcase out from where he had pushed it under the bed when he entered his room.

 

He clicked it open, eyes glancing up to the door before pushing it open, the sleek knife set sitting on the top half of it seeming to wink at him as he instead placed his eyes on the other suits he had brought to replace the bloodstained one he had taken from his victim the night before.

 

He sure as hell couldn’t have walked onto the train in the clothes he had been wearing before that, if they could even be considered clothes. No, he was better off wearing a bloodstained suit than _that_.

 

He pulled out a white shirt and a jacket, placing them neatly on the bed before closing the case gingerly, bending down to make sure none of the knives caught on any of the suits and ripped them. Then he’d have to kill someone else and get more, and that really wasn’t something he wanted to repeat. Men were all the same, he wanted something to spice it up.

 

He stood up, placing the case under the bed again before slipping his trenchcoat off and throwing it haphazardly next to the change of clothes, planning to put it back on after he finished.

 

He reached over and opened the window, exposing the small compartment to the fast whipping winds passing by the train.

 

He then pulled off the jacket, stuffing it into the window and watching it fly out the window, never to be found again.

 

He stepped back from the window again, hands reaching for the buttons on his shirt when the compartment door opened, the sound of something falling to the floor before he heard a gun cock and the telltale whoosh of it being pointed at his back.

 

“Put your fucking hands up.”

 

_Alternatively._

 

Tinsley grabbed his arm to steady himself.

 

Finally, fucking _finally_ he had caught Goldsworth red-handed. Or, red-backed, since the back of that shirt was completely soaked through with blood.

 

But where he had expected Goldsworth to laugh and turn around languidly, this man stuck his arms in the air and yelled “DON’T SHOOT! PLEASE.”

 

Tinsley paused but steadied his hands on the gun, squinting at the man’s back.

 

“Turn around slowly,” he instructed, “or I’ll shoot.”

 

The man followed the instructions, and instead of coming face to face with a confident smirk, Tinsley came face to face with a face of pure terror.

 

“Please, I can explain the blood, just let me explain,” Ricky Goldsworth pleaded, looking Tinsley in the eye.

 

Tinsley almost wanted to believe him, except he knew that this man was probably responsible for the murders of over 20 innocent citizens of Los Angeles.

 

“Thirty seconds, go,” Tinsley said, placing his finger on the trigger.

 

Goldsworth obviously noticed and tensed, and Tinsley smirked internally. He had a one up.

 

“He made me wear it,” Goldsworth said.

 

“I was walking by an alley off of South Hill Street and he came up to me, shoved me into the alley and forced me into the shirt, stripped me and everything. Said he knew I was a suspect. Said if he heard I took them off before I got on my train he’d kill me like how he killed that man further down the alley.”

 

Tinsley looked Goldsworth in the eye after he stopped talking, looked at the pure fear the man was putting out, the way his body was curing away from him to try and get as far away from the gun as possible.

 

He lowered his gun.

 

“Oh thank god,” Goldsworth breathed, body slumping onto his bed, fingers reaching up to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt.

 

“Did you see his face?” Tinsley asked, and Goldsworth shook his head, actually starting to unbutton the shirt. Tinsley looked away.

 

“No,” Goldsworth said, “I only heard his voice. It was kind of deep. Smooth, too. Like a nice voice on the radio.”

 

Tinsley heard a suitcase unbuckling.

 

“Could you give me that shirt when you’re done with it, I’d like to take it in to get it tested,” he asked, and Goldsworth hummed.

 

“Of course,” he murmured.

 

_Alternatively._

 

Ricky slipped a knife out of his case quietly, eyes fixed onto Connor’s turned back. He was impressed with himself for making up that story, and even more impressed that he had fooled Connor, since Francesca had told him that the man knew what she was up to when he saw her.

 

“Okay,” Ricky stood up, positioning himself close to Connor, but not too close. He had one shot at this. “Here’s your shirt.”

 

Connor turned around and Ricky stuck his first blade into Connor’s chest, angled through the ribs to pierce the lungs and (if he was really lucky) the heart.

 

Connor’s eyes widened in shock.

 

“Too bad you’re such a prude Connor, otherwise you could have seen this coming and killed me when you had the chance.”

 

Ricky knew his words wouldn’t register.

 

He pulled the blade out and stuck it through the left eye socket, angling it to hit the brain and kill instantly, multiple practice runs preparing him for this exact moment.

 

He saw the blood, saw the life flow out of Connor’s right eye and pulled the blade out, kicking the body once for good measure.

 

He wiped the blade, his shoes, and his hands on the white shirt, throwing it out the window to join the jacket and placing the knife back, quickly putting a shirt and jacket on along with his coat and putting the knife back into its place in the case.

 

He walked out of the room, stepping over the puddle of blood and closing the door behind him, sparing one last glance at Connor before exiting the compartment.

 

He waited another two stops and exited the train two hours north of Los Angeles, stepping off the train and smelling the fresh seaside air, knowing he could live the rest of his life as a free man.

**Author's Note:**

> (The next week he was headlining again, of course, Connor had been discovered on the train. People were being told to look out for a Hamlet Christianson, but also that the same Mr. Christianson had been a victim of the Golden Killer only a day few days prior.)


End file.
